


Five Times Bucky Modelled For Steve

by Selenay



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: 5 Times, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Childhood Friends, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-07
Updated: 2014-06-07
Packaged: 2018-02-03 18:47:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1754475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Selenay/pseuds/Selenay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time Steve drew Bucky, he had purple hair like something out of a cartoon.</p><p>"I don't have a brown," Steve said when he got to Bucky's hair. "Sorry. It got broken."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to [chaneen](http://archiveofourown.org/users/chaneen/pseuds/chaneen) for her amazing beta work, including stellar (and patient) American picking duties. Any errors remaining are my own.

The first time Steve drew Bucky, it was the third day of second grade and Bucky was the new kid in school. Steve had missed the first two days of the school year because of an asthma attack, and he'd been told firmly by his mom and grandma that he wasn't supposed to run around during recess.

He didn't mind, because they'd given him a new composition book to draw in. New composition books didn't appear often unless they were for school work, so this was a treat.

He was sitting on a bench at the side of the playground, with his new book on his knee and his old box of coloured pencils beside him. The first two pages were already full of pictures: kids running, Mr Abrams with his clipboard, the pigeon that had fluttered down and sat on the other end of the bench for a while. He looked up from colouring in a drawing of his own sneaker to find a boy with messy brown hair standing in front of him.

The boy had a bright, crooked smile, and he was craning his neck to see the page.

"Watcha drawing?" the boy asked.

Steve shrugged. "Stuff."

"Can I see?"

After a moment's hesitation, Steve held out his precious composition book. The boy scrubbed his hands on his pants before reaching out to take it, flipping through the pages carefully. His smile widened at each drawing, and there was an impressed look in his eyes when he passed it back.

"Wow," the boy said. "Those are really cool. You can really draw."

"Um, thank you," Steve said. His face felt pink. "It's just doodles."

The boy made a rude sound. "No way, they're really great. Could you draw me?"

"I guess so," Steve said.

"Awesome." The boy beamed. "How should I stand? Like this?"

He struck a ridiculous hero pose, hands on hips and head turned to the side, and Steve laughed. He couldn't help it. The boy didn't seem to mind, looking back to smile before cracking up with laughter as well. Steve's laughter turned into a coughing fit and he fumbled for the inhaler in his pocket. By the time he'd taken a dose and gotten his breathing under control, the boy was sitting next to him rubbing a hand up and down his back. It was what Mom did when Steve had an attack.

"I'm Bucky," the boy said. "Guess that's why you weren't in school the last two days?"

"Pretty much," Steve said.

"You're kinda scrawny."

"And you're kinda rude," Steve retorted. He slapped a hand over his mouth, because that was pretty rude as well. "Sorry."

"My mom says that a lot, too," Bucky said with a philosophical shrug. "She says my mouth gets ahead of my brain and I should think before I say stuff. 'Cept then I'd never say stuff, 'cause who wants to be thinking about everything first all the time?"

Steve was fairly sure that made no sense, but Bucky seemed so earnest that he couldn't say anything.

Instead, he said, "I can draw you if you want to sit right there. That'll be fine."

Bucky grinned, and a lock of his messy hair fell over his face. Steve pulled out a pencil and began drawing quickly, sketching in features before Bucky could move again. The other boy seemed to be perpetually moving, fingers twisting in the tie on his jacket, even though he was clearly trying to hold still. He was four feet of tightly bundled energy and crooked smiles, and Steve thought he was great.

"I don't have a brown," Steve said when he got to Bucky's hair. "Sorry. It got broken."

It had been smashed to splinters at the end of last school year, when Steve tried to stop Harry Edgars from beating up Miles Jones and got a beating of his own instead. Harry had thrown his box of pencils at the wall and stomped on it as he left, and Steve had gone home with a black eye.

"That's cool," Bucky said. "Brown's kinda boring, anyway. Draw my hair some other colour."

So the first time Steve drew Bucky, he had purple hair like something out of a cartoon.

He tore the drawing out of his composition book when it was done, and gave it to Bucky, who practically glowed with excitement for a moment, before his face clouded over and he shoved the page back.

"I can't take that," Bucky said. "It's your drawing. It's awesome. You can't want to give it away."

"There'll be other drawings," Steve said with a casual shrug. "I did this one for you."

Bucky didn't need any persuading after that. He carried it back to their classroom when the bell rang, and put it carefully between the pages of his reading book. The first time Steve went to Bucky's place to play, a week later, the picture had been carefully tacked up on Bucky's bedroom wall. It stayed there for ten years, until it was yellowed and faded, and then Bucky put it in a folder to keep it safe.


	2. Chapter 2

The second time Bucky modelled for Steve, they were fourteen and Bucky was sprawled out over the end of Steve's bed. It was late in a miserable grey February, and Steve had been sick with a chest infection for the last week. Bucky had spent every afternoon after school right here, on the end of Steve's bed, doing homework and talking about everything that popped into his head.

His teachers always said that Bucky's schoolwork seemed to miraculously improve every time Steve Rogers was sick.

It was Saturday morning, and Bucky had run straight over to Steve's apartment as soon as he finished breakfast. Steve had finally stopped sounding like Darth Vader yesterday afternoon, which was always the point where Bucky felt like he could breathe properly as well. The sun was struggling to pierce through the low clouds, but a few weak beams were making patterns on Steve's floor.

Sprawling on the end of Steve's bed while Steve sketched had become one of Bucky's favourite things over the years, which was kind of weird because he wasn't a lying around kind of kid. He played sports, he ran everywhere, and he couldn't stop fidgeting when he sat in class.

But for some reason, even when Steve wasn't sick, this was one of his favourite things to do.

Bucky frowned down at his math book. He had half a page of equations scrawled out, and he still hadn't found x. Unless x was infinity, which he was pretty sure would be wrong. Ms Myers gave them some really difficult stuff sometimes, but she never gave them trick problems that worked out to impossible numbers. He scratched out all the work, so viciously his pencil broke through the paper in one place, and turned to a fresh page to start again.

Bucky hated math.

He'd barely started to struggle through the problem again, when Steve sighed loudly and began tapping his sketch pad with the end of his pencil.

Grateful for any distraction, Bucky looked up and caught Steve glaring at his page. "What's up?"

"Hands," Steve said. "And faces. And feet."

"So, anatomy is basically kicking your ass today," Bucky said, feeling much better now that he wasn't the only one struggling with something. "You could draw them without those parts?"

"Who ever heard of a superhero that's missing most of his body parts?"

"Could be cool. Wasn't there that really old comic you showed me where the superhero was a big eye hanging out in the sky?"

A reluctant smile twitched at the corner of Steve's mouth, and Bucky gave an internal whoop of triumph. "Yeah, but that was sixty years ago. How's Captain Universe supposed to punch out the bad guys if he doesn't have hands?"

Steve had been talking about drawing a comic for weeks. Since the flu he'd caught over Christmas, actually, and Bucky had been cheerleading him the whole way. Mostly that had involved suggesting increasingly crazy superpowers and making up weird supervillains, but Steve had actually used some of his ideas in the plot outlines he'd written down. Bucky's stomach went weirdly fluttery when he read them.

"You could try copying hands?" Bucky suggested.

"Yeah?" Steve said. "Kind of difficult to copy my hands because I'm using them when I draw. And I don't want to copy the way other people do hands. I want to find my own way."

Bucky didn't understand, not really, but there was a light in Steve's eyes that told him this was important. He bit his lip and thought carefully for a minute. "You could copy my hands and stuff."

Steve pursed his lips and stared at him for a long, long moment. Bucky wiggled his fingers at him.

"You wouldn't mind?" Steve asked eventually. "It'd be pretty boring for you. I mean, sitting still and holding positions so I can draw you."

"I've done it before," Bucky said.

"I wasn't very good then. And I finished in about five minutes. This would take longer."

"Tell you what," Bucky said. "I'll make you a deal. You help me with my math homework--show me how it works, not copying yours--and I'll sit still for as long as you need me."

"It's a deal," Steve said immediately. "Show me what you've got."

Bucky handed over his math book, trying not to look completely defeated when Steve winced at his incoherent attempt to find x. He really hated math.

***

That semester, Bucky got his first grade above a D in math. His teachers were astonished, particularly when he followed it up the next semester with a B.

***

Bucky didn't know Steve had entered the comic, "Captain Universe vs. Doctor Atomic", into a competition until he got a letter telling him about the prize they'd won. It was a sticky summer's day when the letter arrived, but he ran straight over to Steve's apartment anyway. Steve was lying on the roof in an ancient sun lounger, and he waved lazily when Bucky stormed up the stairs. Bucky brandished the letter and shouted for a while, about how it was all Steve's work so he couldn't be the co-creator, and Steve listened quietly before listing all the ways Bucky had helped create it.

They eventually decided to pool their winnings, plus their savings, and buy a Playstation together. It was set up in Steve's bedroom, where Bucky could sprawl on the end of Steve's bed while they played. Which was great, because they both caught mono three weeks after the console arrived, and Bucky swore it was the only thing that kept him sane while he recovered.


	3. Chapter 3

The third time Bucky modelled for Steve, they were in their senior year of high school. It wasn't as though Steve had only drawn Bucky those two times and kept his pencil to himself the rest of the time or anything. He'd been doodling little sketches of Bucky's eyes, hands, nose--even his ears and mouth--in the margins of his sketch books for years.

Steve always told himself it was just for practice. He could play around with different styles, different ideas, by basing them on something familiar. It was a good excuse, but somehow it always felt flimsy whenever he opened a book to a page filled with sketches of Bucky's hands in different poses, or studies of Bucky biting his lip in concentration. He kept the books hidden in his bag or carefully locked in his desk, even though nobody would ever guess they were all parts of the same person. The books made him feel vulnerable in a way he couldn't understand.

So really, it was the third time Bucky _deliberately_ modelled for Steve. It was their senior year, and the yearbook committee wanted a double page illustration from the school's most talented artist to commemorate the boys' soccer team winning the PSAL playoffs for the first time. 

Steve had gone to every game, no matter the weather, citing school spirit even though he was only really there for Bucky. He'd taken his book and pencils to most of them, so he'd built up a good collection of quick sketches of the players running and scoring. That didn't seem right for the yearbook, though.

What he had in mind was a moment at the end of the last game, where the team had hoisted Bucky onto their shoulders and paraded him around the field. They'd all been mud-spattered and sweaty, but Bucky's wide smile had beamed out through the muck. Steve's heart had felt so full in that moment, he thought it might burst. They were cheering and celebrating Bucky, who had scored the winning goal in stoppage time, and Steve had never felt prouder in his life. It was that moment he wanted to capture for the yearbook.

Not the moment minutes later, when Bucky had finally been allowed to stand on his own two feet again and he'd rushed to Steve and hugged him until his ribs ached. Despite the muddy dampness of Bucky's clothes and skin, Steve had hugged him back and inhaled the scent of rain and sweat. In that moment, his stomach had done something fluttery and warm that he still hadn't figured out a meaning for. He wanted to keep that part private; a memory he could pull out and wrap himself in that nobody else had.

Bucky's victory lap on the shoulders of his team; that was what he wanted the school to remember. Dozens of photos had been taken that night, and Steve had gathered up every one he could find. He'd sketched it all, as much as he could remember, as soon as he got home, even though he hadn't been asked about drawing it until two weeks later.

But photos and rough sketches weren't enough. He couldn't seem to get the picture to look right. The proportions were all wrong and everything looked stiff and unnatural. Bucky had watched him working, photographs stuck up all around his desk, and he'd made a suggestion.

"I'll get the guys together after school tomorrow," he'd said, kicking his feet up onto Steve's bed from his position on the floor. "We'll put on the uniforms, do the pose, and you can draw us. We'll be a little cleaner than we were, but you can fill that stuff in later, right?"

Steve had pushed away from the desk and rolled his eyes at Bucky's sprawl. It looked uncomfortable, but Bucky had assured him more than once that it wasn't. The trick was moving before the circulation in his feet cut off, apparently.

"I don't know," Steve had said dubiously. "You think they'd do it?"

"Pretty sure I can find a way to persuade them."

"Bucky..."

"Relax." Bucky had grinned, and the expression had made Steve's stomach do that fluttery warm thing again. "It'll be fine. I know all their weak spots. They'll be there."

That was how Steve found himself in the gym after school, watching half the soccer team pushing and shoving and laughing at each other until Bucky corralled them into line. Steve sat in the bleachers, his sketch book and pencils set out on a board balanced across his knees. Wet, mushy snow was falling outside, which made working out there impossible, but Steve could fill in the background easily enough.

It was the anatomy that had been beating him again.

After a few minutes of horseplay, the team settled down and allowed Steve to direct them into the positions he needed. They hoisted Bucky onto their shoulders, nearly dropped him, and finally stabilised into something approximating the victory lap they'd done on the night. It was close enough, anyway, even though they were missing a few people who were already on to their winter sports team practice.

Steve lost himself in the rhythm of looking and drawing for the next hour, only taking breaks when the team insisted they had to put Bucky down and rest before they dropped him. 

When they announced they couldn't lift Bucky again--and Bucky complained his legs were getting bruised from all the handling, prompting a series of crude dick and ball jokes--Steve smiled and thanked them. They filed slowly out of the gym as Bucky sauntered over to flop down next to Steve.

"Got enough?" Bucky asked.

"Maybe," Steve said cautiously.

Bucky leaned in to peer over Steve's shoulder at the half-finished piece. Steve's stomach did the weird fluttery roll thing again, and he had to resist the urge to lean back against Bucky's shoulder.

"That's looking good," Bucky said. "We look damn heroic like that."

Steve snorted. "You'll look muddier by the time I'm done."

"Yeah, yeah." Bucky nudged him in the ribs. "Don't you know? The best heroes are always filthy by the end of the movie."

"Jerk."

"Punk."

Steve bounced an eraser off Bucky's forehead, leaving a smear of graphite behind. He couldn't stop grinning every time he caught sight of it as they shared burgers and watched Die Hard movies that evening.

***

The yearbook came out months later and Steve's picture was right in the centre. It felt like he signed every damn copy of the yearbook, even for people who hadn't spoken to him all four years of high school.

Bucky hadn't seen the picture since that afternoon in the gym, because Steve had felt uncomfortable showing it to him. He wasn't sure why. It felt too personal, just like all those doodles and sketches he kept hidden in his desk. Steve didn't exactly hold his breath as he watched Bucky flip through the glossy pages to the centre, but he did feel a little dizzy after a couple of minutes.

The expression in Bucky's eyes when he looked up made Steve's stomach do the fluttery warm thing again, and for the first time, he figured out what it meant. He almost said it out loud, but Bucky's latest girl dropped down at their table just as Steve opened his mouth and the moment was lost.


	4. Chapter 4

The fourth time Bucky modelled for Steve, he was broke and needed the money.

Two hundred bucks for a day standing around while people took photos of him wasn't exactly a hardship. It was even legal, which Bucky knew would make Steve happy.

Tending bar at a shitty dive brought in some money, and it was closer to legal than most of the work Bucky had been offered over the years, but it wasn't great. It was in a bad neighbourhood, and even though Steve never said anything, Bucky knew he worried about him walking home after each shift. It was there in the lines between Steve's eyebrows, and the way he was always awake when Bucky got home no matter how late it was.

They were juniors in college and Steve, lucky talented bastard, had scored a bunch of scholarships that meant his job at the coffee shop was mostly about having extra money for art supplies. He'd probably graduate with virtually no loans, because he was intelligent and talented, and the university fucking loved him.

Bucky had a crappy financial aid package, more loans than he wanted to think about, and his bar job (and occasional forays into hustling at pool) still left him with twenty bucks in his wallet when the rent was due more often than not. He didn't resent Steve, because nobody could ever resent Steve, but sometimes he wished he'd made some different choices.

Like studying harder in high school.

Or packing in the idea of college completely, and taking the job at the auto shop his dad offered him.

Except Steve was right about college opening doors and all that shit, and Bucky knew it. Like he always said: clever, talented bastard.

So when Steve forwarded an email asking for models for his photography course, Bucky was the second person to sign up. He knew less than zero about modelling, but he figured there couldn't be anything difficult about standing around looking pretty for a few hours. It might even be fun.

Bucky kept thinking that, right up until he walked into the studio and stopped dead in his tracks. There were beautiful women walking around everywhere, apparently unconcerned about being topless in front of strangers. It should have been heaven. If Bucky's old soccer team could have seen him, they would have been high fiving his luck for the next week.

Bucky wasn't a prude. Far from it. He'd been up close and personal with plenty of breasts, and he'd never complained about it before. He'd never really gone crazy over them like some of the guys he hung with, but you know. Breasts were cool. 

Kind of nice. 

Round-ish.

Soft. 

Nice. Did he mention nice yet?

It was just...there were so many of them, everywhere he looked.

"You okay?" Steve asked, squeezing past him through the door.

Bucky nodded and followed him over to a bench, where Steve started to fiddle with... complicated camera shit. Really complicated. Bucky could just about identify the lens and the part people looked through; everything else made about as much sense as a carburettor probably did to Steve.

Someone tapped him on the shoulder, and Bucky turned to face a blonde woman wearing a geeky t-shirt, a camera slung around her neck. She was probably the only fully-dressed woman in the room.

"I don't recognise you," the woman said. "Are you new to the class?"

Steve grinned over his shoulder. "Sorry, Alice. Bucky's one of the models."

"Ah." Alice smiled, eyes twinkling. "Then you should probably head over to wardrobe. It's the corner with all the clothes."

Bucky spotted the wardrobe corner easily. A whole bunch of shirts and t-shirts had been strewn across a couple of chairs, with shoes and socks piled on the floor. So, not an actual wardrobe; just a place to temporarily store clothes that weren't needed for the shoots.

Fine. He could do this.

He waved to Steve and sauntered over, trying to look casual. Really casual. Because breasts are _great_. Right?

A few minutes later, he was shirtless and shoeless and posing artistically with two half-naked women. His old soccer team would have been over the moon.

Bucky...wasn't. He was confused.

"Look bored, boy model!" someone shouted. "Don't look down, look around. Look somewhere else, look bored and world-weary."

 _So_ not a problem. Well, the world-weary part was. Bucky didn't know how he was supposed to affect that. But being unmoved by the semi-nude women pressing against his arms?

Yup, not a problem.

Because the confusing part was, despite all the gorgeous women standing around in tight jeans and nothing else, Bucky's eyes kept getting drawn back to Steve.

Steve, who was wearing an ancient t-shirt that stretched too tight over the muscular chest Bucky still couldn't get used to.

Steve, who was biting his lip in concentration, and Bucky had the stunning realisation that he'd like to bite it for him, thank you.

Steve, who was the best person Bucky knew. Had ever known.

Steve, who had a really nice boyfriend named Sam.

Yeah, that Steve. And Bucky had been kind of watching for a while, trying to pretend he wasn't, but now he was standing in a room surrounded by gorgeous women and the only person threatening to give him a boner was...Steve.

Okay, so maybe Bucky had noticed the buff guy operating the lights, too. Maybe.

But mostly it was Steve.

And it had been months since Bucky last slept with a girl, and even longer since he'd last felt really satisfied after sex, and now his chest was getting tight and his eyes felt prickly and...

"Ten minute break, everyone!" someone shouted. Definitely a teacher, it had to be. The students weren't that bossy.

Bucky wasn't aware that he was running away until he was sitting halfway down the stairs outside the studio, slumped over, clinging to the metal railing so hard his fingers ached with it. His chest hurt, and he couldn't seem to breathe, and he was so fucking cold...no, hot...no, definitely cold...

"Hey, are you alright?" Steve asked.

Bucky didn't look up, couldn't look up. The iron railing was freezing against his skin, but it was the only thing that felt real, so he pressed his head against it until his scalp hurt.

The soft sound of Steve's footsteps and the rustle of clothing as Steve sat down seemed distant, like they were happening somewhere else. When Steve's hand touched his naked back, Bucky jumped. He couldn't help it. Steve spread his fingers over Bucky's skin slowly, as if he was petting a nervous animal, and Bucky almost snorted at the image of himself as some kind of skittish woodland creature.

It wasn't exactly funny, but he was having some kind of breakdown or panic attack, and at least the threat of giggles was better than crying.

After a couple of minutes, Steve began rubbing soothing circles on his back. It was kind of nice. Comforting. Bucky held himself rigid for a long moment, fighting against instincts he couldn't understand, before leaning back into the touch and letting some of the tension melt away.

He didn't release his death grip on the railing, but after a while it didn't seem impossible to lean more in Steve's direction and maybe let his shoulder brush Steve's side. Steve didn't ask questions; he just sat there and kept moving his hand until Bucky could breathe again. 

Steve seemed to sense when the worst of it was over, because he wrapped an arm around Bucky's shoulders and hauled him closer. "Want to talk about it?"

Bucky stared down at his knees. His jeans were getting worn, and a hole was starting near the seam.

"You don't have to talk," Steve said after a long silence. "We could just sit. This staircase is...actually, it's really not very comfortable."

"How did you do it?" Bucky asked, after another long silence. His voice sounded scratchy, as if he'd been crying, even though his face was dry.

"How did I do what?"

"Stay so calm. Not freak out."

"Freak out about what?" Steve sounded confused. "Being in a room with partially naked models?"

Bucky couldn't hold in the snort of laughter this time. He even pulled a hand away from the railing so he could nudge Steve in the ribs.

"Okay, so this isn't about the modelling," Steve said.

"Only in a really weird way. I don't know." Bucky took a deep breath. "I think I might be a little bit...gay. Maybe. Kind of."

Steve was too polite to laugh at him. Or at least, he managed to keep his laughter quiet and almost silent. Bucky appreciated the effort.

"How gay?" Steve said, his voice warm and completely calm.

"You want a scale of one to ten?" Bucky asked.

"Pretty sure the Kinsey scale goes from zero to six, but I might have remembered it wrong."

"I don't know. Jeez, I'm new to this shit."

Steve shrugged, and Bucky's stomach did a weird flip-flop thing at the feel of all that muscle rippling against his shoulder. If he let himself think about it too much--which he wasn't going to right now, nope, no way--he'd been having weird flip-flop moments for months.

If he was really, really honest (something he tried to avoid most of the time), it had been happening for years. Long before Steve got all big and muscular and strong. 

"How did you do it?" Bucky asked, after another long silence. "Not freak out when you realised, I mean."

"I guess it didn't feel all that surprising," Steve said thoughtfully. "And I didn't have a big gay epiphany in the middle of a room filled with half-naked women. That helped, too."

Bucky turned his head to meet Steve's kind, concerned blue eyes. He was suddenly painfully aware of exactly how close they were sitting, and how easy it would be to kiss Steve. Just lay a smacker on him, see how he reacted.

Except he was about ninety-nine percent sure that Steve wouldn't kiss him back. He'd be kind and gentle, he'd explain that he couldn't take advantage of Bucky while he was still confused, and Bucky would feel like a total tool.

"Gay epiphany, huh?" Bucky said instead. He tried to smile, and it must have been close to right because Steve smiled back. "Is that what I had?"

"I'm told it happens to some people that way," Steve said, eyes dancing with badly suppressed laughter.

"So, what happens next?"

"Whatever you want," Steve said.

"So, you're not taking me out to all the gay bars tonight?"

"Only if you want me to."

"I'm probably only a little bit gay. Five percent gay. Maybe ten."

Steve smiled kindly. "You can be as gay as you want, and it doesn't change anything for me. You're my best friend, you know?"

Bucky nodded. His eyes felt hot and prickly. "I know."

A door clanged upstairs, and Alice's voice floated down to them. "Steve? Are you guys okay? Mr B is looking for you. We've only got the studio until five."

"I'll be right there!" Steve called, and the door banged shut almost immediately. "Ready to get back to it? I can make excuses if you're not. We can talk about this some more...whatever you need."

"Nah, I'm fine. I'm really fine, promise." Bucky forced himself to grin. "You go on, I'll be right up."

Steve's eyes searched his face for what seemed to be a moment too long, but then he squeezed Bucky's shoulders one last time before he jumped up and hurried inside. Bucky sat on his step for a minute longer, letting his mind drift without focus. He felt lighter, as if something hard and heavy had been taken off his shoulders.

When he finally swiped his damp eyes and followed Steve back to the studio, nobody looked at him twice. Except Steve, of course, who sent him a reassuring smile that made Bucky's heart beat faster and his breath catch in his chest.

***

Bucky waited a month before asking Steve and Sam to take him out to a gay bar. He figured that was long enough to process everything, which was simultaneously the truth and the biggest lie he'd ever told himself.

It was kind of confusing.

What wasn't confusing was the guy he took home a couple of weeks later, and the sex they had in Bucky's broken down twin bed. It was the best sex Bucky had ever had, even though it was just a couple of hand jobs and a very messy blow job.

Steve gave him an odd look when he got home from Sam's place the next morning, and Bucky had a moment of intense regret that he hadn't kissed Steve in the stairwell. He pushed it aside, deep down, and refused to examine it again, while Steve teased him about Kinsey scales and cooked a ridiculous number of pancakes for breakfast.


	5. Chapter 5

The fifth time Bucky modelled for Steve, he was sleeping.

Steve had spent most of the day at his drafting table, pencilling comic panels and swearing under his breath at his decision, two years ago, to put a squiggly gold emblem on his hero's uniform. The squiggly gold emblem was going to be the thing that killed him one day, he was sure of it. Drawing his own creator-owned comic was more satisfying than a lot of the work he did for big publishers, but it was no less exhausting.

Sometimes, he forgot why he'd fallen in love with art and drawing when he was a kid. Everything he did now was with an eye to whether he could sell it to anyone.

That was how he'd ended up like this, sitting over a drafting table on a Friday evening with a snow storm on its way in, wincing as he tried to straighten up and his entire spine popped. He glanced over his shoulder guiltily, but Bucky hadn't woken up at the snap-crackle of stiff vertebrae protesting against moving.

Bucky had been home for--Steve checked in his watch--at least two hours. He'd shuffled in muttering something about spelling bees and papier-mâché. Or maybe Steve had misheard; it was possible. Point was, he'd shuffled in, disappeared into his bedroom for two minutes, and emerged wearing an old sweater and pyjama pants. Then he'd sprawled out on the sofa to "rest his eyes for two minutes" and he'd been sleeping soundly ever since.

Steve had never entirely understood why Bucky turned down a lucrative modelling career after college to teach third grade, but it seemed to suit him.

And it kept him home instead of jetting around the globe. Only Sam, the best ex Steve could ever have asked for, knew how torn Steve had been between encouraging Bucky to leave, and celebrating when he decided to stay.

Glancing back at the drafting table, Steve sighed and made a face at his half-finished panels. He had plenty of time before they were due, so there was no reason to keep working on them right now. In fact, taking a break for the night might help. The hands were all starting to look wrong to him, even though they matched the style of hands he'd used for the last eighteen issues.

He switched off the bright light and turned in his chair to watch Bucky again. After a couple of minutes, his fingers started to itch with the need to draw something, even though he'd just promised himself a break.

Steve rummaged through the nearest drawer, trying to be as quiet as possible, and found an old sketchbook and a box of charcoals under the detritus of incomplete sketches and broken pencils. He balanced the book on his knee and flipped through it for a minute, smiling at the doodles in the margins. Ears, eyes, noses, lips: Bucky featured in small ways on almost every page he'd used. But it had been years since he'd last drawn Bucky for real, as a whole body instead of isolated features. He'd always been too worried that if he tried, his feelings would somehow flow out onto the page for everyone to see.

It was safer to just sketch small pieces of Bucky. Nothing that anyone could identify as him, unless they knew the exact shape of his eyes or the way Bucky bit one side of his lip instead of the centre when he concentrated.

Steve turned to a clean page and took a charcoal out of the box. It felt warm and porous against his fingers, the total opposite of his cold, precise pencils.

He watched Bucky for a while, letting his eyes roam the way he never allowed himself to when Bucky was awake. His fingers began moving without conscious decision and Bucky's form slowly took shape on the page. Steve let the world outside the apartment slip away as he fell into the rhythm of looking between the page and his model. 

His muse.

Fine lines suggested at Bucky's eyelashes, and Steve smudged it to get the shadows just right. Bucky's hair appeared, messy and wild, and strong cross-hatching detailed the texture of his sweater. It had rucked up to expose several inches of smooth abdomen, and Steve didn't blush as he sketched the trail of hair leading down to the waistband of Bucky's pants. He allowed just a hint at the strong muscles in Bucky's thighs, in the way the fabric draped over them, and he caught the perfect curve in the arch of Bucky's bare feet.

When he glanced up at Bucky's face, his eyes were open and watching him sleepily.

"You're awake," Steve said. His fingers tightened convulsively on the charcoal stick for a moment, and it was a miracle it didn't snap. "Sorry, I didn't--"

Bucky waved a hand grandly, his warm, sleepy smile making the air catch in Steve's throat. "Not a problem. You haven't drawn me for years. I don't have to move, do I?"

Steve swallowed. His mouth was too dry. "No, you're perfect right there."

If Bucky heard anything odd in his voice, he didn't mention it. "Gonna make my hair purple this time?"

"I can try switching to pastels next," Steve said, holding up his charcoal stick. He couldn't stop himself from smiling. "Pretty sure I've got a couple of different shades of purple somewhere."

"You go right ahead," Bucky said. "I'll be here anytime you want me."

There was a heavy intensity in the way Bucky was looking at him that made heat rush to Steve's face. The words he'd used could have been innocent, but Steve felt like he was supposed to read something more into them.

Except Bucky couldn't mean what Steve wanted him to mean. That was just wishful thinking.

Steve smiled at him lightly. "I'll keep that in mind."

"You do that," Bucky said.

He yawned and stretched, which pulled his sweater up even further, before settling back on the sofa with his eyes closed. A small smile pulled at the corners of his lips.

Steve looked down at the page. The sketch was pretty much complete, and it only took a minute to rough in the rest of the sofa. Bucky had changed position when he stretched, and Steve was turning over to a fresh page, ready to start again, before he'd made a conscious decision to do it.

He hesitated for a moment. Drawing Bucky like this felt different. More intimate, somehow. Bucky was lying there on the sofa, perfectly posed, and he knew Steve was drawing him and Steve knew that he knew. Part of Steve wanted to stop what he was doing and shove the book into the deepest, darkest drawer he had. It would be the safest option; the one that kept his feelings tightly hidden inside instead of pouring them out in dark lines on the page.

Bucky opened one eye and Steve flushed again. The small smile on Bucky's face twitched into something more mischievous, more challenging, almost a smirk. Steve rolled his eyes, but he'd never been able to resist a challenge. Bucky closed his eyes again, looking smugly satisfied even though he hadn't moved a muscle.

It was harder to slip into the rhythm of look-and-draw that Steve had always found so easily. He kept getting distracted by the small smirk on Bucky's lips; the shadows under his jaw; the trail of hair down his belly that seemed to be pointing straight to places Steve shouldn't be looking. Places Steve refused to look, because staring at his best friend's crotch was a line he couldn't allow himself to cross.

Outside, the snow was starting to hit the windows with a soft patter that promised a heavy covering by morning. Inside the apartment, the air was too warm, and Steve pulled off his heavy shirt before settling back to drawing again. His t-shirt was damp against his back, but he ignored it.

He lingered over Bucky's soft smirk, and frowned as he tried to get Bucky's hands just right. The sweeping lines of Bucky's legs were easier, and he captured the shadows under Bucky's hips with a few smudged lines of charcoal.

Steve sat back in his chair when he finished, staring at the Bucky he'd caught on the page.

"How do I look?" Bucky asked.

Steve's first instinct was to hold the sketch book against his chest so Bucky couldn't see the drawing. It revealed too much. The Bucky on the page was too beautiful, too sensual, for anyone to believe that Steve saw him as just a friend.

His fingers clutched the book convulsively when he heard Bucky stand up, but Steve forced himself to keep the book right where it was on his knee. Hiding the drawing would only make Bucky more curious and determined to see it.

Bucky moved to stand next to him, his hip pressing against Steve's arm as he leaned in to look at the drawing. For a long moment, he didn't say anything. Steve's heart was thumping in his chest too fast, too hard, almost like it had when he was a kid, waiting for the asthma medication to kick in. His chest felt tight, too, but he hadn't had an asthma attack in at least ten years.

"Is that how you see me?" Bucky asked eventually. His voice was low, and he sounded slightly breathless.

Steve swallowed hard and nodded. He didn't dare look up.

Bucky touched the page with a cautious, respectful finger. "Can I look at the rest?"

Steve forced his fingers to uncurl from the edges of the sketch book, and Bucky carried it over to the sofa. His expression was impossible to read as he slowly flipped through the pages, careful not to smudge anything. Every now and then he paused over a sketch, and Steve wondered what had caught his eye. Was it the quick sketch of a bike messenger dunking his head in a fountain, or the doodle of Bucky's eye in the bottom corner of the paper?

The student bent over her books in a coffee shop, or Bucky's lips in the top corner?

A cat stretched out in the sun on the fire escape, or Bucky's hands wrapped around a steaming mug?

Bucky flipped back to the drawing of him. He stared at it with a small frown for a minute, before looking up. "Why didn't you say anything?"

Steve shrugged and tried to force a casual smile. "You're my best friend, Buck."

"So?"

"So, I never wanted to make things awkward between us."

"Why would anything ever be awkward between us?"

"You're saying that this won't make things weird?" Steve asked. He crossed his arms over his chest, feeling exposed and cold deep inside. His shirt was lying on the floor, but he couldn't make himself lean down to pull it on over his t-shirt. It would mean moving, and his whole body was frozen. "It's okay. I never expected anything, and what we've got right now is worth more to me than anything in the world. I don't want that to change."

Bucky's frown deepened. "But what if I want things to change?"

Steve's heart couldn't have stopped, he was still alive, but that's what it felt like. "Can't we just pretend you didn't see those and go back to the way things were?"

"Some things can't be unseen," Bucky said. "Some things, I don't want to unsee."

"What do you mean?"

Steve was suffocating now, the air in the apartment too thick and too heavy to breathe. Or maybe it was just that he'd forgotten how to breathe, just like he'd forgotten how to move and think.

Bucky stood up, and crossed the room to carefully put the sketch book down on the drafting table. He was standing too close and too far away at the same time. A grin tugged at the corners of his mouth. "What do you think I mean, idiot? Steve, I've been half in love with you my entire life. Think it's pretty much completely now that I've seen those pictures. That time I panicked in the photography studio? It was only about fifty percent because of the big gay epiphany thing."

"What was the other fifty percent?"

"Me panicking because I couldn't pretend I didn't have feelings for you anymore."

Steve felt a smile trying to escape. "Because you're a little bit gay?"

"Yeah." Bucky's smile widened. "It was a whole lot easier to pretend I didn't want to kiss my best friend when I wasn't a little bit gay."

Steve could breathe again. His heart was racing, but it wasn't fear anymore. "Do you still want to kiss your best friend?"

"Gotta tell you," Bucky said, "I don't just want to kiss you anymore. Kinda want to do a whole lot of other things with you, now that I know what's possible. But kissing would be a good place to start, if you're interested."

"I'm interested," Steve said quickly. Not that he thought Bucky would change his mind, but. Yeah. Maybe he was a little worried. "This doesn't have to change things, though."

"Sure it does," Bucky said. "But it'll be a good change."

His hands were warm on Steve's shoulders as he steadied himself to lean in. Steve tipped his head up slightly so their lips could meet. It started out as a gentle kiss, tentative and careful, because the moment called for caution. Everything would change after this, just as Bucky had said, and Steve didn't want to ruin the moment with overeager sloppiness.

He could feel fine tremors in Bucky's hands, and he thought Bucky felt the same way he did about this moment. Scared and excited all at once, too many emotions fighting for dominance. He moved his lips slowly against Bucky's and warm air flowed over his cheek as Bucky sighed.

They pulled apart slowly and Steve watched Bucky's eyes, searching for some sign that everything was about to go horribly wrong. It seemed incredible that this could be happening.

Bucky smiled, and it lit up his eyes. "Is that all you've got?"

Steve gaped up at him. He wasn't sure whether he was supposed to be insulted or aroused, but there was a challenge in Bucky's eyes that he couldn't resist.

He grasped Bucky's hips and pulled him down. Bucky went willingly, straddling his thighs and resting his forearms on Steve's shoulders. The chair creaked under their combined weight, but it held.

Steve cupped his hands around Bucky's jaw and drew him in for another kiss. Bucky's lips parted immediately, and Steve took that as invitation to sweep in and taste him. Harsh breathing filled the air as the kiss deepened, and Steve didn't know whether he was consuming or being consumed. His skin felt too sensitive, too hot, and Bucky reached down to push up his t-shirt and put warm hands all over his naked back, making him gasp and twitch. 

The kiss was out of control in the best way possible, and Steve didn't want it to end. He would have been happy to stay there kissing Bucky forever. It was everything he'd dreamed about and so much more. He'd never imagined the gasps and whimpers Bucky would make when he sucked on Bucky's lower lip.

The low groan when he stripped off Bucky's sweater and sucked a kiss over his collar bone.

The thick, needy voice Bucky would use when they rocked against each other urgently, too far gone to fumble with buttons and belts.

When he'd allowed himself to think about it, he'd always imagined their first time happening in a huge bed, with soft sheets at his back and Bucky pressing him into the mattress.

He hadn't planned to be sitting in his drafting chair, gasping into Bucky's mouth as he came so hard he saw stars. He hadn't imagined Bucky grabbing his hand and pressing it against the thick outline of Bucky's cock, hot and throbbing even through fabric. He hadn't been able to predict that he'd curl his fingers around that length, and Bucky would immediately grunt and thrust up against his hand as orgasm overwhelmed him.

Bucky slumped against him and Steve rubbed and petted his back, feeling too blissed out and happy to move even though the drafting chair was uncomfortable and his pants were sticky. They were probably both covered in charcoal as well, but it didn't seem to matter in that moment.

"Okay, you've got some skills," Bucky mumbled against his neck after a couple of minutes.

Steve chuckled. "Still think this is a good kind of change?"

Bucky sat up, and the look in his eyes made Steve's breath catch in his throat. "If you're not sure, then I'm doing this wrong. Give me an hour and we can try again."

"Really? You only need an hour?" Steve lifted an eyebrow, trying to look sceptical instead of orgasm drunk. It was probably a lost cause.

"Maybe two," Bucky conceded. "And we should try to make it to a bed next time. Pretty sure I can blow your mind if I've got more room to work."

"You're very sure of yourself."

"I've got a lot of motivation to convince you this is the best thing we've ever done," Bucky said, a soft smile curving his lips, which made Steve want to bite and taste them again.

"I'm already there," Steve said. He gave into temptation and kissed Bucky, just because he could, and Bucky seemed to approve of that decision from the enthusiastic response. They kissed until Steve felt breathless again and had to pull back a little. "Can I draw you like that?"

Bucky looked confused for a moment, before comprehension filled his eyes. "Naked in your bed?" he asked, arching an eyebrow. "What am I, a muse?"

"Yes," Steve said simply, and drew him in for another kiss.


End file.
